


Not Love

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Desperation Play, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Religious Guilt, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean licked his lips. The look he gave Javert was hesitant; almost it seemed that he would speak, but then he took hold of his glass once more and emptied what wine remained. There was a slight flush on his face that Javert thought came from more than the wine.</p>
<p>He waited. It was a game. It was more than a game. </p>
<p>It was no more than that he liked to make Valjean ask, he told himself, and Valjean had never liked to ask, not even when he had been weak and unable to stand and had flushed with helpless humiliation every time Javert watched him lift his nightshirt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Unapologetic idporn of the sort where religious guilt makes them substitute watersports for intimacy. Yes.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Love

He hung between the posts of the broken fence like a tall, black scarecrow.

At first Madeleine had thought that was what he was. Now that he knelt before him, the scarecrow with its ferocious whiskers had been revealed to be no other than Javert, inspector of the police, beaten and bruised and bound to the fence with his own handcuffs. The men who had done this to him seemed to be long gone, although at least no permanent damage had been done: Javert could speak, though he chose not to, his bruised jaw clenched and his dark eyes shadowed with impotent humiliation as he had to allow the mayor to carefully check his body for injury.

“Monsieur,” Javert said at last, and his voice was clear, even though there was a dried trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, where one of the men must have struck him. Madeleine almost reached out to wipe at it, but controlled himself just in time; something about touching Javert's lips seemed repulsive to him, even though he had never recoiled from giving succor to those in need before. And yet Javert's lips were swollen and bruised, and the thought that they might feel warm and soft made something in him shudder.

“Monsieur, please. You need not wait here. Simply tell them in the station house where to find me. They will bring a key.” 

“Nonsense, Javert. You are injured, how can I leave? The mail will come by soon; I will hail the man, and ask him to report at the station house, and he will be quicker about it than if I walked all the way back.”

“Monsieur,” Javert said again, his voice barely more than a groan. There was a heat in his gaze, a warmth on his cheeks that seemed to Madeleine more than just the shame of being found in such a position, and after a moment, he lowered his eyes, his lips parted, and he exhaled as he shifted. Another soft sound of discomfort followed; his hands tightened to fists, yanked with involuntary anxiety at the cuffs that held him, then there was another groan of despair that was strangely sensual as he moved in his bonds, unable to find a comfortable position.

Ah. 

Suddenly, Madeleine recognized the inspector's predicament. Javert's skin gleamed with perspiration; the muscles in his thighs trembled with effort as he knelt there on the ground before Madeleine, but it was not caused by the pain, or the humiliation of having been overwhelmed by a band of ruffians.

“Monsieur, I...”

Javert trembled, and Madeleine, who had left cruelty behind long ago, found that there was a strange satisfaction at the thought of hearing Javert say what he needed to say. He waited. Javert, desperate, shifted again, licked at the blood at the corner of his mouth, tried to raise his eyes to Madeleine's face and could not.

“You should wait for the mail coach by the street, Monsieur,” he said at last. Madeleine smiled a little.

“I could not leave you alone, Javert; truly, my conscience would not let me.” Sweat beaded at Javert's brow, another groan escaped him at the mild words. “We shall hear when it is about to approach; I will go to the street then.”

“Monsieur...” 

Another long silence when Javert could not continue. At last, Javert raised his head to meet Madeleine's eyes. Shame had flushed his cheeks with heat, his eyes were dark with humiliation and a hint of rage at being forced to say the words.

“I need to piss, Monsieur. I would appreciate a moment's privacy.”

Madeleine allowed his eyes to slowly slide down towards Javert's groin; the man shuddered again, made a small, mortified sound and pressed his legs together, and then Madeleine gave the hands still cuffed to the fence a pointed look.

“And will you wet your trousers like a child, Javert?”

Javert made a choked sound; what rage there might have been in his eyes had disappeared, so that only a sharp, helpless humiliation was left. Madeleine shivered to find that it was not unpleasant to see; as much as if to bury that petty satisfaction than from a true desire to ease the man's discomfort, he began to open Javert's trousers, feeling Javert's muscles tremble from the tension of that overwhelming need to piss.

“Monsieur,” Javert groaned again, the sound short, pained; he panted through clenched teeth, and Madeleine freed his cock, tried not to think of the satisfaction which the humiliated moan that escaped Javert gave him. Javert was soft; there was something distasteful to hold him like this, limp and warm in his hand, and he pointed his cock away from them so that Javert's urine would not stain their clothes.

“Well then, Javert. Go on.”

“Monsieur, I can't, you shouldn't!” Javert was still panting, desperately avoiding Valjean's eyes, and even at his protest a first trickle escaped. A pained whimper tore free from his throat, he shuddered, and his cock jerked in Madeleine's hand, Javert's hot piss flowing over his fingers for a moment before he could tighten his grip on him.

“Javert!” he said, more surprised than chiding, and Javert groaned, meeting his gaze now, tears of humiliation in his eyes. Javert did not speak; his throat worked, but no sound came out, and Madeleine was almost glad for it. It was one thing, this unholy pleasure at this man's abasement; he had no desire to make this event even more distasteful by reducing the man to tears.

Javert continued to pant; he did not look away now as he continued to piss, a long steady stream of hot urine, biting his lip in torment or relief, Madeleine could not say. The soft gasps Javert could not keep from escaping could be both pain or ecstasy. When he was done at last, when the stream slowed to a trickle and then stopped, and Madeleine released him, holding his hand between them for a moment, his fingers still wet with Javert's cooling piss, Javert leaned forward as far as he could and closed his eyes, and his tongue rasped against where the piss still dripped from his fingertips. Javert's cheeks burned with color; Madeleine could not look away. Neatly, orderly, Javert lapped up the warm piss, then drew Madeleine's fingers into his mouth to suck them clean with quiet focus.

It was Madeleine who drew back at last, a flush on his own cheeks at the sound of the approaching mail coach. Hastily, he put Javert's cock back inside his trousers, ignoring the way Javert was panting and the way his own cock had begun to harden as much as Javert's had, and he had to swallow before he straightened his coat and turned to hail the coach from the street.

#

Valjean gave him a hesitant smile when Javert came by that evening. After Valjean had saved him from the parapet, he had been able to return the favor when after long months of absence, he finally returned to Valjean's quarters to find the man nearly wasted away, offering himself up to his own grief the way Javert had thought to offer himself up to the river. Now Javert took a quiet, furious satisfaction in denying the man the death he himself had been denied.

Valjean did not eat, so Javert fed him spoon after spoon of soup. Valjean did not want a fire lit, so Javert bought new wood every day and made certain that it was still burning when he left in the morning. Valjean wanted to cut away all life and warmth, and so Javert slept by his side at night, the sound of his breathing a reminder of the life to which he had chained Valjean that he sometimes hoped with petty satisfaction was as cruel as the iron chain had been.

He washed Valjean. Valjean did not protest, he never did, and so Javert's hands were not gentle, though the water was warm. Sometimes he thought it would torment Valjean more were he gentle; he could not make himself be.

His words, at least, were not cruel when he asked Valjean whether he wanted more soup, or a book; at the denial he had expected, he helped Valjean sit up, and then watched him grow flustered for a moment before he managed to make himself ask for the chamber pot. Javert fetched it, and then he stood and watched as Valjean's fingers tightened in the fabric of his nightshirt, his cheeks flushing; Javert, who took a petty satisfaction in this as well, had also never bothered to hide that satisfaction from Valjean, and at last Valjean pulled up his nightshirt and bared his limp cock to Javert's gaze, unable to meet his eyes as he moved slowly to sit at the edge of the bed.

Valjean hesitated; Javert did not move, and did not bother to look away. At last Valjean swallowed and took hold of his prick, and something within Javert ached to see how thin his wrists had become from how he had neglected himself, although his cock was still impressive even in its soft state, heavy and fat, with thick veins beneath the skin. Javert swallowed, violently beating down this thing within him that took too much pleasure from seeing Valjean revealed and shamed. 

Valjean pointed his cock at the chamber pot; after a long moment, he began to piss with a soft sound of embarrassed relief. Javert continued to watch him until at last, Valjean met his eyes, and his lips parted a little so that his breath escaped as a gasp.

Valjean did not speak, although his hands shook; the steady stream of urine had thinned to a trickle, and now some of the piss splashed onto the wooden floor of his room instead. Valjean made a soft, embarrassed sound, looked down in mortification to where the tip of his limp prick was still dripping a last few drops of urine. At last, Javert moved to put the chamberpot away, and then returned to Valjean's bed to kneel down, lowering himself carefully until he could slowly lap up the small puddle of cooling piss, his tongue rasping against the floor with every neat swipe. 

When he sat up again, he leaned forward, and did not look up as he drew the crown of Valjean's cock into his mouth, sucking the last few drops of his piss from him with quiet focus, cleaning him carefully with little flicks of his tongue. His mind was blank; he thought of nothing. When it was done and he had drawn what remained of the taste of his piss from Valjean, he rose again, and ignored the nearly unbearable ache of his cock as he undressed and pulled on his own nightshirt. 

He did not meet Valjean's eyes when he joined him in bed. It was dark by that time, and the fire burned low, and he had blown out the candle. Darkness surrounded them; beneath the covers, it was warm, and the nightshirt felt too rough against his heated skin. He did not dare to move. He listened to Valjean's breathing. An hour must have passed that way; his prick still pulsed with insistent need against his stomach. At last, Valjean's hand slid into his own, their fingers entwined, there in the darkness beneath the blanket; he bit his lip hard to keep back the sound of agony as his body tensed and betrayed him and he panted in quiet shame as his hot spend stained his nightshirt.

#

They had found a small table with chairs at the heart of a tiny, overgrown gazebo. These old things, M. Gillenormand had declared, were not fitting for a garden that should celebrate this new, young love, and so the gazebo and the muddy pond that surrounded it, as well as the trees grown too tall and dense through the years, were to be torn down in the spring, and Cosette was to plan a more fashionable layout for this forgotten corner of the large garden.

It seemed fitting to sit here. What they shared was not new, was not young – was not love, Javert told himself, and then quickly steered his thoughts away from such treacherous ground, and instead focused on the bottles before them. They had escaped the party with two bottles of a fine red wine from Bordeaux; usually, neither of them indulged overly much, but two old gentlemen seeking solitude and quiet talk over wine was understood, even encouraged by M. Gillenormand, who preferred to watch over the younger guests and their dancing and socializing.

Now both bottles were empty, and Valjean was relaxed. That face he had come to know so well was calm and open; even, once or twice, Javert had been given a smile that cut somewhere deep inside him, as if there was something soft and easily wounded at the heart of him. 

Valjean shifted ever so slightly, his smile making way for an expression of discomfort for a heartbeat. Javert watched, and this thing inside him turned and twisted until it was no longer soft, until it was something hard and sharp, the beak of a falcon who had spied his prey.

Valjean licked his lips. The look he gave Javert was hesitant; almost it seemed that he would speak, but then he took hold of his glass once more and emptied what wine remained. There was a slight flush on his face that Javert thought came from more than the wine.

He waited. It was a game. It was more than a game. 

It was no more than that he liked to make Valjean ask, he told himself, and Valjean had never liked to ask, not even when he had been weak and unable to stand and had flushed with helpless humiliation every time Javert watched him lift his nightshirt.

Yes, Javert thought, it might well be that there was still cruelty in him. But then, he did not force Valjean to remain, and if Valjean would rather stay and sit and hesitate over his wine, until at last he was flushed and could not help but shift from the need within him... Well. Maybe that was not cruelty after all then. 

Valjean moved again. He swallowed, lowered his gaze; his cheeks were already flushed with heat as he pressed his knees together.

“Javert...” he said softly at last, his voice trembling a little, and Javert took care to keep his expression blank as he stood, and then knelt.

“Spread your legs,” he said mildly. 

Valjean's flush deepened; his hands clenched hard around the armrest of his chair. “Javert, please, I–”

“Spread your legs,” Javert said again, calm, patient, watching as Valjean bit back a quiet sound of despair, the muscles of his thighs hard with tension as he spread his legs with obvious reluctance.

“Good. Now open your trousers.”

Valjean's breath escaped in a tormented groan. “Javert, I cannot...”

“Now,” Javert said, and watched as Valjean obeyed, his fingers trembling as he revealed his prick to Javert's gaze at last. He had begun to harden, and Javert smiled, and then made himself shake his head.

“And how are you going to piss like that, Valjean?”

“Oh God, Javert, I need to – just let me–” Sweat gleamed on Valjean's forehead. 

“Well, go ahead then. Take care of this.” Javert's voice was still calm, as if this were perfectly reasonable – and it was, he told himself again. He eyed Valjean's prick, found it hardening even further at his close inspection, and he did not move, remained kneeling there between Valjean's legs, until Valjean at last wrapped a trembling hand around himself. “Go on, Valjean. Hurry up.”

A small whimper escaped Valjean. He squeezed his eyes shut, tightened his fingers to reluctantly stroke himself. Javert forced himself to breathe very slowly despite the obscene sight before him: Valjean clad in his finery, his trousers opened just far enough to allow his thick cock to jut out, hardening further with every reluctant stroke of Valjean's hand. It was obscene, he told himself. He could not look away.

At last, when the muscles in Valjean's thighs were trembling, when that beautiful cock was flushed dark and wet at the tip and curving towards his stomach, threatening to drip slickness all over the finely embroidered waistcoat, Javert made a chiding sound, and when Valjean froze and opened his eyes to give him a look of dazed torment, pressed his handkerchief into his hand.

“There. Use that,” he said, then could not help but add, “Imagine M. Gillenormand sees you return with your spend all over your waistcoat, like a schoolboy who cannot control himself.”

Valjean flushed a deeper red. He bit his lip but could not quite hold back his moan as he wrapped Javert's handkerchief around his cock, then continued pulling on himself with desperate, quick motions, and Javert kept his eyes on his face to drink in his expression as he found release, the way his mouth slackened with pleasure, the way that tell-tale gleam in his eyes turned into wetness that ran down his cheeks, the way his lips parted, bitten until they had flushed a dark, bruised red.

Javert took a deep breath. “Good,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, and Valjean bit back a sound that was almost a sob, and allowed Javert to pull the wet handkerchief from his cock to lovingly wipe away the spend that still clung to his damp skin.

“And will you confess your weakness to the priest this Sunday?” Javert asked as he carefully stowed the stained cloth away in a pocket. 

Valjean shuddered, then nodded.

“What will he say; a man your age who cannot control his body's urges?” Javert almost smiled again when the words made Valjean shift and bite those already bruised lips. “But he must be used to shameful confessions from you. Will you tell me what penance he gives you for your sin?”

Valjean raised a trembling hand to his brow, wiped at the beads of sweat. “If you want to know... You know I will tell you.”

Javert exhaled with quiet satisfaction, wondered if Valjean could feel his breath against the damp skin of his cock. “I will watch when you kneel on the stone floor and pray there in penance,” he said at last. Valjean shivered again, but did not speak; instead he shifted again until he stilled once more with a hiss of discomfort, his thighs tensing against Javert's shoulders.

“I... ah, Javert, I have to–”

“I know,” Javert said, and leaned forward, careful to keep his hands away from those tense, strong thighs as he drew Valjean's cock into his mouth. The crown of Valjean's cock rested on his tongue, heavy and slick; he could taste a hint of his spend, strange and salty, and shivered with sudden nervousness, eager for the hot piss to wash it away.

Valjean hesitated for a long moment; at last Javert grew impatient. He drew one hand up along a hard thigh with secret guilt until he could press it against Valjean's stomach, massaging with a gentleness that he knew was cruelty from the way Valjean tensed and groaned in torment. This time, he could hear the tears when Valjean gasped his name; he ignored it, did not look up, and then at last Valjean sobbed and relaxed and his mouth was filled by the sudden rush of Valjean's piss. He made a soft sound – it was not a moan, he told himself. The stream hit his tongue, filled his mouth; he had to swallow again and again while his lips stretched around the thick, warm shape of Valjean's cock. 

Somewhere between his legs, his pulse throbbed with an insistent ache. He ignored it, swallowed carefully, sucked on Valjean's cock in encouragement when the stream slowed at last to a trickle, and when it was all done, he let Valjean's cock slip from his lips, and stood, and made certain not to look down to where his own cock was pressing against his trousers with an embarrassing hardness. 

“Ah... Thank you, Javert,” Valjean said at last, still flushed, his voice slightly choked, and Javert licked his lips and nodded, unable to meet his gaze, the shame in him burning so hot that he feared it would take no more than that look to make him stain his trousers. Instead, he turned towards the table, tightened his hands around the bottles to keep from touching the hardness between his legs.

“We should return,” he said at last, and waited until Valjean had straightened his clothes and stood. Valjean took the bottles out of his hands; Javert stiffened and nearly spilled himself after all when their fingers brushed against each other.

“It is a good vintage,” Valjean said, his voice very soft and gentle, filled with a fragile thing that was almost hope. “I shall ask M. Gillenormand for another bottle, so we can share it at home.”

Javert nodded curtly. He did not trust himself to talk.


End file.
